Free Berry the Hatchet by Peg Cochran Page B

was.”
    â€œI don’t know. . . .” Grace slid her feet in and out of the clogs she was wearing.
    â€œWell, was it a male or female?” Hennie asked impatiently.
    â€œIt was a woman,” Grace answered.
    â€œAnd?” Hennie raised her eyebrows.
    â€œNicely dressed.”
    By now even Eleanor was beginning to get impatient. “If this person had an argument with Preston that was so loud you heard it out at your desk, it’s probably significant. You must try to remember. What color hair did she have? What kind of clothes?”
    Grace squeezed her eyes shut as if that would jog her memory. “She was wearing a jacket—the kind that buttons over like this.” She demonstrated with her hands.
    â€œDouble-breasted. Go on,” Eleanor said. “Color?”
    â€œDark. Navy or maybe black, I’m not sure.”
    â€œWas she wearing anything else besides a jacket?” Eleanor asked and everyone laughed.
    â€œPants. Gray pants and suede shoes,” Grace said triumphantly. “I remember thinking the shoes looked very comfortable—almost like those slippers they sell that look like moccasins but are lined in fur.” Grace closed her eyes again. “Her hair was blond,” she finished and looked around almost as if expecting applause.
    Monica had felt herself grow cold as Grace’s description continued, and by the end she was positive. It was her mother who had had the argument with Preston right before he died.
    Could she be the one who had killed him?

Chapter 8

    Monica was so distracted by the thought of her mother as a potential suspect in a murder case that she couldn’t focus on the book discussion that swirled around her. Several times someone had to repeat her name to get her attention, and she caught the brief look of concern that crossed Greg’s face at one point.
    Finally the meeting came to an end, and everyone got ready to leave—donning coats, pulling on hats and winding scarves around their necks. Discussion about the book had been lively and continued even as the members of the book club prepared to depart. Monica was about to leave when Greg put a hand on her arm to stop her.
    â€œHave a minute?” he asked with a smile.
    Monica hesitated. “Sure,” she said at last.
    Greg plopped down into one of the armchairs, which sent up a puff of dust while emitting a loud groan. Monicatook the seat opposite him—a rickety wooden folding chair. She unbuttoned her coat and took off her gloves.
    Greg was silent as he fiddled with his reading glasses, twirling them around and around by the earpiece. Finally he spoke.
    â€œI’m worried about you.”
    â€œMe?” Monica said, pointing at herself.
    â€œYes. Is something wrong? You’re normally an active part of our book discussion, but today you seemed . . . you seemed as if you were somewhere else.” Greg smiled. “Your mind that is.”
    Monica laughed, but it didn’t sound right, even to her ears. “I guess I was a little preoccupied.” She hesitated for a moment. Should she tell Greg? Why not—he’d proven himself to be her friend. “The woman Grace described as having been in Preston’s office arguing with him sounded a lot like my mother. Actually I’m quite sure it
was
my mother.”
    â€œYour mother?” Greg looked confused. “But isn’t she in—”
    â€œShe came to Cranberry Cove for a visit. Although not to see me—to see Preston Crowley. Apparently she met him when he was in Chicago on business, and they began dating. She thought she would surprise him.”
    â€œBut why would that make you think she had anything to do with Preston’s murder?”
    Monica fiddled with the gloves in her lap—turning them over and over and over. “I’m not the one who thinks she murdered him—Detective Stevens does.”
    Greg looked even more perplexed.